Bromides

The inspiration behind 'codswallop' comes from years of collecting crass bromides when other people try and respond to suffering. I started at the end of 1984 when the M.S. came out of remission and added a lot more after Paul’s death in 1985.

One woman, having asked what was wrong with me, offered the information that she was an exorcist. She also said twice that when she saw me she thought “there, but for the grace of God, go I”. After the second time, I asked her what that was saying about me and the grace of God, which fortunately shut her up.

The idea that God tests you only to the limit of your strength, I found appalling. In the first place, I hadn't blamed God and in the second, at that time, I was not at the limits of my strength although I would say by now I am. So that's where the poem came from as if we are all sitting a life time exam.

After Paul had died I was still being told that if I prayed the M.S. would still get better. And even my explaining, that people were praying up and down the coasts of New Zealand for Paul when he was dying, didn't shift his earnestness. I distinctly remember that Christ on the cross called out in near despair “my God, why hast thou forsaken me”: which seems to suggest that God sometimes says “no”, not always a word that people want to hear.

I know I fit the Old Testament model: if I'm suffering like this, God can not be pleased with me but it's strange to detect such thinking in other people, although, I must say, most of their bromides consist of not saying anything at all which I suppose, is safer when you are communicating with a wordsmith.

Codswallop!

“God tests you only to the limits

of your strength.” That means an exam.

My mind goes back to a great hall,

tables and chair spaced out separately,

frazzled students waiting for the start command.

But thats not right; it will be

a take-home lifelong exam, with no concern

for the welfare of students, only for

the integrity of the subject.

Answers are absolute. You're competing

not with others but with yourself.

“Many are called but few are chosen.”

That makes three categories:

called, uncalled and chosen.

And not our choice either.

Orlando

She went out with a growl and a spit;

not grumpiness, you understand,

but arthritic pain in her joints.

She'd been fading for the last few weeks,

great weight loss, her fur no longer plush;

but it was her eyes, they looked haunted,

not fear of death but fear of life itself;

the long day-to-day endurance.

We laid her in a bed of autumn leaves,

under the hedge, below the smoke bush

flaming its defiance into the sky.

The house still resonates with her presence:

her curled sleeping shape

her daily dash down the hall

her deep-throated purr.

Missing Edges

Many years ago I learned

about draughter's painters

who needed outlines

and painter's painters,

who merged colours.

It was good I appreciated both styles.

I am losing definitions

and inhabit a Titian garden.

As luck would have it

my memory requires words

to reconstruct an image.

When I now look at my walnut tree

it is composed of contours and colour

and long years of memory.

A good day

I have discovered how to have a good day: have a hideous day first.

Last Wednesday, my catheter blocked and the bladder with it. I can't have the catheter changed unless I am on the bed and I had no- one here who knew how to put me there so I spent the day feeling sick and feverish; I foetalised even worse than usual, and I am already 36cm shorter than I used to be, which gave me a very sore neck and headache. It was a perfectly horrible day.

So, Thursday felt marvellous; although, actually, it was no better than the Tuesday or Monday or the weeks stretching back behind me. And it was such a change to have had an illness that could get better instead of knowing that how I am today is the best I can be. For example, the nurse today acknowledged that the pressure point on my bum, which has been described as an iceberg, will not get better. All their energy is going into making sure it doesn't infect and the skin around it doesn't break.

Unfortunately, Wednesday was such a horrid day, I am in no hurry to have a second one like it, so I will have to wait a long time until I have another good day.

Yin/Yang

Silence and time are the yin and yang

of poetry: inward stillness

and the creative urge.

It may take days, weeks or even months

for ideas to collide in my mind

forging new combinations.

I may seem to be just sitting,

but it's the pregnancy of waiting.

A stillborn poem is no good,

premature is possible, provided

I can give it outer time

to compensate for the missing inner time.

What is needed is longish spells

without distractions.

Time and silence.

Common Ground

I am not pioneering,

nor charting new territory.

Each and every one of us

at one time will find ourselves

traversing the same terrain.

It's just that I speak freely,

feel compelled to acknowledge

every landmark, identify

each passing phase.

Many prefer to maintain silence;

very well, if they encounter my work,

they can turn their heads away.

I will be content if, one day,

my words can bring comfort

to one person in dire need.